The Unbreakable Trilogy. Primula Bond
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I can feel every stretch of muscle in his rangy limbs. Every push of his male response against my stomach.
The closeness of him stops me thinking straight. I push my mouth up against his.
‘You could take me, right here, al fresco against this tree. How about that? Show me you’re a real man,’ I murmur dirtily, coiling my arms around his neck. I remember my conversation with Crystal, when I asked her if there was something wrong with him. What was her answer?
‘Ravish you in the open air?’
I am reflected in the black depths of Gustav’s eyes, the desire flaming into life as he takes hold of my hips, fans his fingers over my bottom to yank me, grind me against him. Our lips are practically touching, breath panting. The kiss of life.
‘Yes. Your droit de seigneur.’
He chuckles deeply. ‘I like it. My wicked wench. Have you any idea how savagely adorable you are right now?’
‘That’s because you’ve made me so angry!’
‘No. It’s because you want me, Serena. You can’t back-pedal when you’ve just made such an outrageous suggestion. I love that you’re an open book. A volume of stubborn sexiness. And what did Oscar Wilde say? I can resist anything but temptation.’
‘So why resist?’
‘My woodland nymph. Look at you!’ His voice is rough now. ‘I knew it would suit you. A vigorous bout of riding. Still so touchy, but you’re in your element out here. You’re on fire, if that makes sense in sub-zero temperatures.’ His body is pressed so hard against mine that I can hardly breathe. My legs part slightly to invite him in. ‘Why don’t you try lording, or ladying it, over me?’
‘If you would only stop talking.’
I flatten one hand over the front of his jodhpurs, pause for permission, start to fondle the obvious, solid shape throbbing there. I expect him to rear away, slap me off, hiss some cutting word of rejection, but this is our new verb. Ladying. I’ve tasered him. I can see every rippling muscle in his exposed neck now that I have his scarf. He is swallowing, his Adam’s apple jutting. I can see the thick black bristles peppering his strong neck. That familiar fast pulse pushing at his skin.
Then his mouth opens again, I’m making him breathless, but he remains quiet, just nudges himself harder into my softly stroking hand. I’m being impudent now, taking a risk, but he doesn’t resist. I watch his mouth struggle open as he gasps softly.
So I do it some more, relish the pulsing hardness growing under my touch. He reaches down and twines his fingers with my roving hand, urging it to work harder and faster.
‘What was that you said about working up a sweat?’ I murmur, moving my lips against his.
Oh, what was Crystal’s reply to my question?
Gustav closes his eyes, lets his warm mouth travel across my mouth, across my cheek, down my jaw, and then with a gentleness that makes me moan he lifts my hair and kisses my neck, my throat, under my ear, where my own pulse is pounding.
I arch my throat under his mouth, shuddering as his lips tickle and tantalise the tender skin. I’m so damp now.
The bitter wind is whipping up my blood at the same time as slowly freezing my skin.
My white jacket rucks up as we rock more insistently against the tree, the weight of him rubbing my bare back against the rough bark and thrilling me with the brief scrape of pain. Gustav’s free hand edges in between my legs.
He is nibbling on my neck, moving down to my collar bone, his tongue licking, his lips sucking. My breasts swell with longing under all that clothing. I ride on his hand, push against him, every part of me singing hopelessly with desire and desperation. My legs are shaking from the ride, the stress, the insistent pain in my ankle nagging, distracting. I can feel his breath on my neck, his restless fingers leaving mine to open my jacket now, his breath as ragged and hot as mine.
Nothing wrong with him at all. Not physically. He’s all red-blooded male.
He is going for the zipper of my jodhpurs. I start to scrabble with his trousers, too, but it’s impossible in these gloves. We’re in too much of a rush. He takes the tab of my zip, starts to undo it, and then my ankle gives.
I stumble sideways, moaning in pain as my leg loses its strength and jerks from under me.
He stops what he’s doing. We both stop. We are staring, wild-eyed, open-mouthed, our hands still poised over each other’s zippers. His dark, hypnotic eyes.
‘Gustav, I – oh, God, my ankle!’
Pain shoots up the tendons in my foot and the back of my leg. I’m torn, so torn. All of me throbs with cold and wanting, but the ankle is seizing up now.
Gustav straightens, smoothes my hair back. Watches me attentively as I bite my lips with pain. Whatever we started has finished for now. He tidies my jacket over my hips. He takes his time. Still so tender. Then he kneels down, yanks the gloves off with his teeth.
‘Let’s take a look.’ He cradles the sore, discoloured foot in his long, bare fingers. His black hair falls over his face as he examines my ankle. I long to stroke it. ‘No wonder you’re in such a state. This looks nasty.’
Nasty or not, I could still come with that one touch of his fingers on the arch of my foot. I rest my head against the tree. I look past Gustav’s dark head, avoid the temptation to tangle my fingers through his hair, to push his face against the part of me that he knows is still aching for him, because the moment has passed. I blink up at the dark grey sky glowing orange from the lakeside city below.
The bony fingers of the branches around us have calmed down as if they are also waiting to see what he will do next.
For a few more precious moments Gustav Levi is focusing on me. The brittle mask is torn away. The constant demands are gone. He’s far from the phone calls, the people, the ghosts. For a few minutes more it’s just the two of us. But the kaleidoscope of this last hour or so, the cold clarity of the air, the rush of blood as we galloped side by side, the stark reality of that chapel, the pain in my foot, all of it has been shaken into place.
I stammer into the silence. ‘Please, Gustav. Either bind up this ankle and get me back up on the horse, or get me to a doctor.’
‘Come on, Hiawatha,’ he murmurs at last, moving away as if his legs are made of lead. The shyness creeps back as the distance lets in the cold. Fragile, and foolish, is how I feel now. Weak, cold, and defeated.
He takes my horse and walks it over to his. Those gorgeous long, strong legs, that were measured up against mine just now. I am still weak with wanting, weak with all of it. Slowly we push through the curtain of ivy and there we are, ridiculously, come full circle and right back in the stable yard. No wonder my horse stopped dead.
Gustav ties up the steeds, wolf-whistles through his teeth for the invisible grooms, and helps me over to the Lexus which is once more parked by the archway.
‘How about a quick spin down into Lugano? You won’t be doing much hiking with that ankle, so why don’t I treat you to a hot chocolate by the lake?’
I’m suddenly overwhelmed with tiredness and confusion. I ease my aching foot into the car. ‘Hot chocolate is just what the doctor ordered.’
We drive down the road, past a couple of cosy-looking bistros. Gustav tells me they are called grottos because they used to be carved from caves in the hillside.
It’s not long before we’re approaching the immaculate promenade lit by the glowing bulbs of streetlamps. He drives along the edge of the lake for a while, navigates some corners, then brings us out onto a quiet stretch of bars and restaurants. He parks outside a particularly pretty bar illuminated with fairy lights, its wooden verandah glassed in and heated for the winter but suspended over the flat, black water. As we walk slowly towards it I see a boat house full of polished wooden boats hauled up, waiting